Intern of Mysteries
by Issandri
Summary: Hermione Granger has been approached to work at the Department of Mysteries. It is a mystery in and of itself that she agreed. The people are strange, the job is strange, and the Department itself is... Well. It seems as though it is alive, or at least has some sort of consciousness. And now, the 9th level of the Ministry has led her to a peculiar room, and the room's occupant...
1. Chapter 1

'9 am. 9th level. Knock'

As far as notes went, Hermione Granger had received few so infuriatingly vague. It was not detailed or really altogether reassuring, definitely not something she'd expected from her place of employment (as opposed to the drunken scrawl of a certain ginger friend of hers). Of course, it was the Department of _Mysteries_, after all, and when she was approached by the department head he had been about as cryptic as this missive was, perhaps more so. The irony of the fact that it had arrived a few ticks before midnight on the wings of a wicked looking predator bird with vicious claws had not escaped her, although the ink-colored hawk was careful not to hurt her and cooed preciously when she stroked his crown.

And now she found herself in a crowded elevator, descending to level 9 of the Ministry of Magic. Each time the lift stopped and people crowded in and out, her thoughts did the same, whirring through her head quick enough to dizzy her. When she had finally finished her schooling at Hogwarts, she had planned to enter the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and integrate her school organization S.P.E.W. into the procedures of the branch. After almost nine years of living in the wizarding world, she ought to have known things weren't going to go exactly as planned.

She had been approached by Mr. Croaker swiftly after she graduated; it seemed as though he was there as soon as he stepped off the platform, so to speak. He was unusually squat, with a long, deep set face and wide, sloe eyes that glistened but did not look directly at any one thing. His proposal had been to the point and Hermione had been entranced by it despite its brevity. She had wondered several times sense if he'd performed a charm of some sort to get her to agree, but the anticipation building in her gut as the elevator stopped at level 6 made her think that at least some part of her was fascinated by the opportunity. This ride was most definitely the slowest of her life, and she wanted to hurry along the people shoving in and out of the lift on their way to and from their destinations. She cast a quick Tempus, noted that it was eight-thirty, and tried to calm her breathing. Fortunately most of her fellow riders abandoned her on the next floor, no more than two rejoining, and none of them gave her any dirty or curious looks.

By the time the elevator descended to the ninth level, she was alone and slightly panicking. She barely heard the announcement of the floor, stepping out into the bleakly colored hallway only just before the doors closed and brought her back up to the Atrium. The black door seemed to stare at her from the end of the hallway. She shifted, brushing her robes and smoothing her wily hair as much as it could be, before once again casting a quick Tempus and trying not to remember the last time she had been down here.

Eight-forty-three. She had arrived early, and was now regretting her innate instinct to be punctual. _Early is on time, on time is late, _sang a particularly vicious inner voice that sounded like an amalgamation of her arithmetic teacher from primary school and Dolores "Pinked-Toad" Umbridge. She shuddered and resisted the urge to check the time again. Wondering who would be there to answer the door at exactly nine o'clock, Hermione rested her hand on the door.

The sudden and unbelievable pain that burned through her left forearm made her jerk back immediately and pull at her sleeve with the hand she had used on the door. The pain was gone, quick enough to make her wonder if it had even existed in the first place, and nothing seemed wrong – aside from the slur still carved into her flesh, permanently scarred by a cursed blade. It wasn't entirely unusual for her to experience phantom pain, especially there, but it was usually never this strong, and the timing had made her heart pump furiously in her chest. She felt her face; it was hot, and she was sure she was beet red. She rubbed her arm again and then pulled down her sleeve. Promising herself to think about it later, she checked the time and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

9 o'clock.

She knocked.

For a few seconds, nothing happened.

Then the door flew open - thankfully inwards; as it was she was almost barreled over by a sobbing man running out the portal with his head in his hands – and Mr. Croaker was in the doorway, yelling.

"Right! You take as long as you need, Mr. Boding! Owl Ms. Jessica if you need anything at all!" The man, barely standing at the height of Hermione's shoulder, watched with a shake of the head and a chuckle as the man reached the elevator and pounded on the call, not once turning back to look towards his boss or the bewildered, bushy haired new employee. The two stood there, watching for a moment Mr. Boding as he collapsed into an even bigger wreck of wordless, wretched blubbering, until Hermione cleared her throat. Croaker seemed to jerk at the sound, but turned towards her with a beaming smile. It looked out of place on his sallow face; he had before been rather serious looking, frown lines and bruised eyes carved into visage that looked as though it should be young. The grin brightened the man and the atmosphere around him, and he spoke loud enough to cover Boding's crying. "Oh! You're here!" He seemed genuinely flabbergasted, and as Hermione's eyes flickered over to the man scrambling onto the elevator, his weeping quieter now, she did not wonder why.

"I am, sir," Hermione responded, not sure what to say. Croaker's grin disappeared nigh-instantly and he turned with a solemn dip of his head towards the interior of the door.

"Of course; of course." He intoned, stepping inside and motioning for her to do the same. "Welcome to the Department of Mysteries." With sudden dread and a great reluctance, Hermione crossed the threshold. Her eyes fell to her feet when the somewhat familiar sight of twelve smooth, handle-less doors, standing like ominous obelisks or monuments to strange and ancient gods. Seeing herself in the reflection of the highly polished floor, she felt her life blur and a filter of the past was layered over the scene, the feeling of terror almost tangible, the sound of Harry's panicked voice as he led them towards where Sirius most certainly wasn't echoing in her ears…

A door opened; there was a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Hermione settled back into the present with a jolt of her body and a twinge of her left arm. Other than his reassuring grip, Mr. Croaker didn't seem to have noticed or acknowledged Hermione's momentary check-out from reality; he simply guided her out of the Entrance Chamber and into a long, rectangular, well lit room with several doors on each wall. Hermione realized exactly where she was as soon as she saw that the walls were completely covered in clocks and a bell jar rested at the far end, twinkling innocently with an internal light. She forced away the memory before it could be recalled, and tried to focus on her new boss, whom she realized had been talking for who knew how long.

"- And we're still working on replacing some of the things that were lost, you understand –" She at least had the presence of mind to look guiltily at the restored but empty cabinets where the time-turners had been. "But our offices are here, and they're pretty much the only rooms that stay where they're supposed to be. That is to say, everything is where it's supposed to be, it's just not always convenient for us human folk." Croaker gave a little chuckle at that, though his face stayed relatively stony, which unnerved her a bit. "The Department is bigger than it seems, and it takes quite a while to get used to navigating it," he explained, holding open one of the doors for her and letting her through before closing it behind them. The offices definitely looked loads different from when she had battled in them; there were several cubicles, all empty, and the room was brightly lit by- was that a-? "Enchanted ceiling," Croaker explained, following her gaze up.

It had been a while since Hermione had felt the urge to quote _Hogwarts, A History_. She'd been out of school for at least a year, and had learned to quash what some described as her "know-it-all" tendencies and just silently squeal about all the factual minutae that flew around in her head faster than a clutch of seekers diving for a golden snitch. She allowed herself to imagine going on and on about the magic behind enchanted ceilings as she was shown to her desk, a small cube identical to the others in all but the smallest ways; hers was empty, save a single blank piece of paper sitting on the top of her desk, directly center.

"Ah, you've got a letter," Croaker said, looking around the empty office. "Probably a note from K, she said she'd leave instructions on how to find her. K will be your trainer, sort of, for the bit of time you'll need one. More of an escort. She'll show you around and make sure you don't step in anybody's mess." Hermione stepped inside the grey walled cube and picked up the paper, bemused. "My best advice to you would be not to worry," Croaker continued, giving her a small and supposedly reassuring grin that didn't fulfill its intended purpose in the slightest. Hermione felt with a distinct dread that he was about to leave her alone without any further instruction than this oh-so-informative note from the mysterious "K".

She was right; one moment she was looking right at her new boss, and the next he seemed to disappear with a blink of an eye, no goodbye whatsoever. She sat down heavily in her chair, allowing her mind to flit over for a moment to consider how comfy it was, and heaved a deep and heavy sigh. Everything about today had a distinctly Dumbledorian air, and she had not always appreciated how vague and mysterious the old wizard had been even when she was a small child and enchanted by the reality of magic. She stared quizzically at the blank sheet for a few minutes, every once in a while muttering a spell to reveal invisible ink or receive a message meant for her eyes only. Thinking that perhaps it would do something location-specific, she hopped off of her arse and strode out the door with a particular atmosphere that anyone that didn't know her particularly well looking in would read as "completely and utterly done with this nonsense" but anyone who had seen her faced with a particularly difficult problem in school would recognize as "completely and utterly intrigued". As soon as she opened the door to the office, however, she ran into a woman before she could even start on the puzzle.

"Well, it certainly took you less time than the others," the woman said, snorting. "But it still took you almost," - she cast a quick Tempus - "ten minutes to walk out the door on your own." She was a red headed tower of a lady, looking down at Hermione with amusement and dark green, almost to the point of being black, eyes. "If you aren't searching for the exit with the intention of quitting already, follow me, love." With that she turned quickly on her heel, as if intending to apparate, and strode off. Hermione assumed this was K.

She had to hustle to catch up with the older woman, whose long legs easily put her leagues ahead of Hermione even though she'd only paused in surprise for a few seconds at the most. K led Hermione away from the Time room and into a hall of doors. It was rather otherwise featureless, and some of the doors seemed to blend in with the walls as though trying to keep themselves hidden from the employees. K stayed silent, not faltering in her long strides, and seemed to begin to move faster until Hermione found herself struggling to keep up. Soon her pace slowed again, however, and Hermione wondered how long they had been walking. The hall seemed endless in its monotony although Hermione had not seen a door in a while.

K turned and Hermione found herself looking at the taller woman's shoulder. Hermione followed the witch's gaze and was surprised to see a bright green door with a polished brass doorknob. "Here we are," K said, her voice smiling although her face didn't match the amused tone she portrayed. 

"Where is here?" Hermione asked hesitantly. K looked at her with a raised brow as she grasped the doorknob in one hand and held her wand - thirteen inches, blackthorne?- aloft in the other.

"No idea," she said, cackling and opening the portal. Hermione watched anxiously and stepped inside after her mentor. Another hallway, this one a bit more decorated and cheery. "Oh," K said, sounding surprised. "The Department has dumped us relatively near the entrance."

"How can we be near the entrance?" Hermione exclaimed. "We've been walking for almost a half an hour, at least." 

"As employees," K began, beginning to sound annoyed. The woman was obviously not used to a shadow. "We don't have the luxury of traveling the department as it was built. We're sent where we're needed. And it seems as though we're needed in the Cheering sector. You're in luck."

Hermione looked around. The hall had cherry red walls gilded in gold stenciling, and when she looked closer, the figures of animals and people seemed to move slightly, as though laughing and at play. "Cheering sector?" Hermione noticed with apprehension that her mouth had split into a wide grin for absolutely no reason at all. K herself was smiling, although it seemed more subdued and her eyes seemed to be a little in pain.

"Yes. Sometimes the sectors get a little... over-enthusiastic. Not many of us study cheering, you know. Wizarding world's got all sorts of shortcuts to happiness now, and with the war over not many people are interested in trying to produce patronuses. Anyhow it seems to have gotten a bit lonely."

"So...what. We spend some time with the room and it lets off with the cheeriness?" Hermione's cheeks began to hurt.

"Who knows," K responded, throwing her head back into a laugh that grew nearly hysterical before it petered off. "Right. Time to get to work before we laugh ourselves to death."

"At least we'd die with a smile on our faces," Hermione joked. K gave her as serious a glare as she could with the now-eerie smile lighting up her expression.

"I'm serious." This was all the witch said but Hermione felt a chill envelope her stomach. "Come." K raised her wand again and did a complicated waving pattern than Hermione could barely follow. Her wand hand twitched in an attempt to analyze the movements and stared at K's mouth, but no incantation was brought forth. 

_Wordless magic,_ Hermione thought, quirking her mouth into a half impressed half irritated smile. Good for K, to be able to exhibit such a talent, but the point, Hermione thought, was to teach her, not impress her. Nothing seemed to happen and Hermione's smile became a little bit more genuine, vicisouly thinking that the witch should have tried to be less "impressive" and more practical, especially when she was trying to actually teach her new coworker how to actually go about the job. Not that Hermione even knew what exactly their job was. What she seemed to discern so far was that they had to "fix" things; what those "things" were that they had to fix, she had no clue, and neither did her coworkers it seemed. The way they talked about the Department was as though it were a conscious entity that knew what needed to be done, although it wasn't as far fetched as it sounded given that Hermione had spent only a fraction of the time in the wizarding world as half the people she knew and still discovered strange and outlandish magics every day of her life that she never would have dreamed existed as a small muggle child. And she had been an imaginitive child, despite the perception by her peers, both muggle and magical, that she was a stuff know-it-all who only memoried facts and could recite the dictionary frontwards and backwards. 

She was jerked out of her thoughts when K flourished her wand in a wider arc, nearly slapping Hermione in the face - she would have hit the bushy haired girl had Hermione not ducked out of the way. This time there was an angry flash of red sparks that shot off to the left and collided against a wardrobe that shuddered and grew half again in size.

"Wh-what-" Hermione squeaked, fear and surprise overcome by irritation when K rolled her eyes. 

"If you're surprised by that, love, you won't last a week." She grunted and pulled up her sleeves, approaching the dresser as one would approach a miffed hippogriff. Not that one would approach a miffed hippogriff. Hermione could only conclude that her mentor was absolutely insane, and giggled at the thought. K sent a cheery grin over her shoulder, and it took Hermione a moment to realize that the look had meant to be a chastising one, or at least angry. "Not time to brace yourself, alright, let's-" The woman threw open the doors with a maniacal cackle and a bright, white light burst forth.

Harry and Ron stepped from the wardrobe, looking disheveled and confused. "Cor, 'Mione," Ron said, blushing bright red from his neck to his ears and looking her up and down. "I dunno how I got here, but you look right smashing." He gave her the lopsided grin she'd always fancied on his face and took a step towards her. Hermione's view of the boys was blocked off by the sleeve of K's robe as the witch threw her arm in front of Hermione's face. 

"I don't know what you're seeing, girl, but get the dopey grin and ruddy blush off your face and HELP ME." 

Harry raised an eyebrow and stared at K. "Who's this woman, Hermione?" He looked around curiously, mussing his already bedraggled hair and shaking his head. "And where they hell are we? This certainly isn't the Department of Regulation of Magical Creatures, is it?"

Hermione gripped her wand, feeling a bit guilty. She hadn't exactly told the boys what she was doing. In fact, she might have lied about where her internship was, although in retrospect that was a bad idea given the fact that they were at the ministry too. She'd already had to decline a lunch date - well, not date, more like rendezvous - Hermione's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shove. She stared up at K, surprised, when the woman hovered over Hermione's tackled position on the ground and started screaming in her face.

"Look here you useless bint," she cried, laughter seeping into her desperate yelling. Hermione had no clue what her problem was, and she resented being called useless in a situation that clearly didn't call for any sort of alarm. K grabbed her wand arm and Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to tug it out of K's grip. It was becoming painful as the other witch attempted to push and pull it in a complicated motion. She started yelling nonsense and Hermione had just about had enough of it.

"Oi! Hermione! What the bloody hell are you doing? Stupefy the bitch!" Ron called, making no move of his own towards the wrestling witches. Hermione frowned and felt a terrible, sharp pain in her abdomen as she did so. She couldn't help it, though; Ron was so infuriating! How dare he stand back by that blasted wardrobe when she obviously needed help - when K had gone insane and tackled her to the grimy floor and she could do little but resist her and stare up into the grey colored ceiling -

But, grey? Had it been grey before? She looked over at Ron and his face seemed to be entirely overtaken by a huge, smiling mouth. The teeth gnashed and she jerked out of K's grip to hurl a stunning spell at the monstrous thing, whatever it was.

K got up and pulled Hermione to her feet before whirling on the wardrobe. "That's the spirit," she muttered, then pointed her wand at the shuddering piece of furniture. The red and gold cheerful decorations seemed to fade from the walls and a frowning grey overtook everything, something far gloomier than even the monotonous halls that had led the two witches here. "Now you listen up," K growled threateningly, leading the dresser to cower against the wall and flap its doors as though shooing the formidable witch away. "You stop this nonsense right now, you!" The dresser hissed and growled at K, prompting Hermione's eyebrows to shoot up under her curly bangs and disappear.

"She's talking to the furniture," Hermione muttered in disbelief, wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into. "Right, yup, crazier than Merlin's great aunt Bertie." K ignored her and seemed to grow as she intimidated the wardrobe with a great growl. It sounded distinctly wolfish and Hermione wondered if her co-worker was possible an animagus - or a werewolf. 

"BEHAVE." K shouted, and the wardrobe shrank as K's loud voice echoed throughout the room. Hermione fought the urge to flinch and her aching mouth began to more easily fight against smiling. "Or we'll turn you into firewood, and see how happy you'll make us then, crackling in our fireplace until we put you out and toss you in the rubbish bin!" The wardrobe whimpered then, its doors reaching out as though seeking reassurance from the witch. Everything seemed rather silly to Hermione now, although she felt no compulsion to smile any longer. "Well? Will you behave? I have no sympathy for your tomfoolery." K crossed her arms, still keeping her wand trained on the animated dresser from the crook of her elbow. It seemed to sink as though sighing and shook a little in what Hermione assumed was acquiesence. She'd never had to read the expression of a wardrobe before. "Good. Right. Well then. Hermione, freeze 'er up." 

"Me?" Hermione asked incredulously. K raised an eyebrow and frowned a frown so deep that it seemed she was making up for lost time with all the forced smiling that she'd been doing since they'd entered the room. The only thing that kept Hermione from sneering in return was the fear of looking distinctly Malfoy-ish.

"Is there any other Hermione in the vicinity?" K turned mockingly to the dresser and leaned forward. "Is your name Hermione?" she asked in an exaggerated stage whisper. The dresser shook and let out a small burst of light as though giggling. "Hey!" the redhead barked sternly, and the wardrobe subdued itself and sank lower, reducing again in size. The tall witch looked once again to Hermione and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" 

Hermione looked from her to the wardrobe. It seemed resigned and K seemed expectant. "Well, alright," Hermione muttered, curtly flicking her wand, an _Immobulus_ on her lips. She relaxed slightly when the wardrobe went rigid and seemed to return to the quiet mundanity that had let it go unnoticed before. She hadn't been sure the spell would work. The color of the room faded to a neutral, soft green color that was not quite happy or sad, and Hermione felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Without a word to Hermione, K nodded to herself and whisked out the door. Hermione followed behind her, shutting the green door and watching as it popped out of existence with a twist of its knob.

"That could have gone better," K remarked snidely. Hermione bristled. 

"Listen," she snapped, crossing her arms and glaring at K. The taller witch turned on her heel and looked at her, unimpressed. "I very well might not meet the standards of whatever it is you do, but today is my first day and -" 

"I don't want to hear your excuses for being inept," K interrupted waving her hand as though waving off Hermione's words. The ex-gryffindor growled and resisted the urge to stomp her feet like a child throwing a tantrum. That wasn't what she needed right now. She took a deep breath and focused her energy into just glaring rather than yelling at the infuriating woman.

"I am not giving excuses for myself. I am calling you out on your horrible teaching style. You expect me to know exactly what to do when all you've done is drag me around a place I've never been," in an official capacity, Hermione added mentally, a slightly guilty grimace crossing her mien, "and wave your wand without even telling me what you're doing!" 

K looked pissed off. "Now you listen, you twit, intuition is a large part of working here, and if you can't handle being a little bit unbalanced, then you should just leave!"

Hermione threw up her hands, screwing her previous attempt at being calm and rational with this obviously crazed woman. "If you're what this department breeds, maybe I should get out before I go completely insane! Honestly, you're worse than Ronald on his worst day, such a prat!"

"Prat!" K repeated, her voice a strangled squeak. "You- You-" Her face grew puce and Hermione grew worried that her mentor was choking on her own breaths. 

"H-hey," she stuttered, taking a step towards the woman. "Calm down before you asphyxiate!" She placed a hand on K's forearm and the woman's eyes bulged. She seemed about to explode. Hermione began to panic. "Hey, really now, calm down, K-" 

She really did burst. Burst into laughter that is. K bowled over, guffawing and snorting and beating on her thighs, trying to catch her breath but giving no effort to actually stop her ridiculous bout of cackling. Her fiery hair tossed and her eyes squeezed shut with such an effort that tears began to drip down her face. Hermione took a step back, surprised, and then rolled her eyes. She really did look like a Weasley.

"Honestly. Insufferable. Come on now, stop it." K kept laughing and it didn't seem to be subsiding in the least. Hermione wondered if it was residual from the cheering room, but no, it seemed annoyingly genuine. "Really? Must you?" 

K didn't answer for lack of space between guffaws and attempts at breathing. Hermione's eyes seemed in danger of rolling out of her head. Finally K seemed to calm down, a few shakes of laughter overcoming her frame as she took a deep breath and tried to speak. 

"Ugh, Miss Granger," K said finally, catching her breath. "Yes; yes, or rather no. You're not all that useless. I'm very used to working alone - you will be too, after I get rid of you as my shadow- and then we'll be colleagues and maybe work together once in a while, and you'll find me just as annoying as I find you-" Hermione thought she probably already did. She also had a feeling that it was the only sort-of apology she'd get from K in this instance, perhaps for the rest of the time she'd spend working with the witch. "Luckily, if I can bring myself to be a good enough teacher, we'll be rid of each other in a week, tops."

"Oh, good," Hermione quipped, then a hand flew to her mouth. She hadn't meant to say it, or even think it, but it was out there now and K luckily only chuckled in response.

"For that I'm going to make you call me Professor for the rest of the week. Prat!" She barked, laughing again when Hermione jumped. "Can't believe you called me a prat. No one's called me that since- well probably since before you were born, not that I'd admit to being that old. Don't ask me how old I am." 

"I didn't plan on it, _Professor_," Hermione retorted. Again K only laughed, and Hermione had a feeling that K was the type of woman who enjoyed being poked and prodded far more than someone bowing and scraping to her every whim. This "professor" wasn't one who'd like a teacher's pet, and for that Hermione was somewhat grateful, although their interactions so far had been grating. She was there to learn, not to become chummy with the more veteran members of the department. 

A buzzing sound came from K's sleeve and she lifted it up. "Oh!" she exclaimed, looking confused. There was what seemed to be a muggle watch on her wrist, gaudily huge and gold-colored. "That time already?" Hermione was confused as to why the witch would even have a watch when a quick Tempus would tell her what time it was. "Work day is over, my pupil. I'll let you follow me back to the entrance today, but tomorrow's quiz will be to see how long it takes you to actually find your way back to the entrance. Don't worry, I'll teach you some tell-tale signs to tell whether you're going the right, wrong, or really wrong direction." The grin on K's face unnerved Hermione and made her wonder what the difference between wrong and really wrong was. She supposed she'd find out tomorrow. She probably didn't want to know, but she'd need to to keep working here. That seemed the theme; having to know things one didn't want to. 

The walk this time seemed infinitely shorter than the one they had taken to arrive at the Cheering room, although it seemed to Hermione that they'd taken the same route. As they walked, K pulled an identical watch to the one on her wrist out of her robe and handed it to Hermione. 

"There's no guarantee that you'll remember to cast a Tempus or that one will even work in the rooms that you'll be entering, so it's important that you bring this to work with you every day. You might get stuck down here a very long time without one. It seemed like probably only an hour or two passed, didn't it?" She looked at Hermione expectantly and the girl nodded. "Right. Well, it was a full work day, and we didn't even take a lunch break. Time passes a bit weirdly down here. Everything's a bit weird down here, in fact-" Hermione snorted at that particular understatement. "Yes, well, whatever. Laugh all you want, just make sure you wear the watch. Basically it is your uniform. Go it?"

"Got it," Hermione echoed. K raised an eyebrow and quirked her mouth into an expectant smirk. "What?" Hermione asked, seeing the look after strapping the watch to her wrist.

"Got it, what?" K sang, opening a door and walking out into the familiar office setting where Hermione had first started this crazy day out. The younger witch flushed when she realized what K wanted. 

"You're joking."

"Dead serious," K retorted, her eyebrows waggling in a mocking gesture. Hermione groaned.

"Got it, professor."

K cackled."Good girl, 10 points to - oh, you would have been, what, a Hufflepuff? Maybe a Ravenclaw? Nah, not a Ravenclaw."

"I was a Gryffindor," Hermione snapped, coloring slightly.

"Ohhh," K drawled, chuckling. "Well that explains as much as it doesn't." Mr. Croaker met them at the entrance to the office in time to save Hermione from rising to K's bait.

"Ah, yes, my dear workers. I hope you two are getting on well." He seemed to notice the way Hermione was glaring at K and how the older woman had a triumphant but petulant smirk on her face and quickly rushed away from the subject. "Same time tomorrow, Hermione. I'm sure you'll fit in well with the department." 

"Will I be meeting any of my other coworkers, sir?" Hermione asked, dreading the thought while attempting to be hopeful about the fact that they might not be as grating as her red-headed mentor. Mr. Croaker and K looked at each other and then the director shook his head, looking almost solemn.

"We're all very busy people, miss Granger. I - and K, of course - will do my - our - best to make you feel as comfortable as possible, but... This job is very much done in solitude most of the time. In some cases you'll need assistance, and of course K will not leave you until you feel comfortable with working on your own, but even during your training and your probationary period, I will not always be available. The Department will lead you in the right direction, and you should be relatively safe..." Floundering, he looked at K with a pleading expression and she stepped in. 

"Right. No need to worry, love, I'll keep your head above water and give you a right proper tour of the facilities tomorrow. I thought it best for you to get your feet wet before we hopped in on the ins and outs of things." Croaker seemed to relax at K's assurances, as though she were speaking to soothe his spirits rather than Hermione's. K touched Hermione's shoulder and smiled at her without guile or snark and Hermione smiled back, albeit reluctantly. She realized that she was exhausted despite having done little more that walk a ways and cast a few spells. The red-head's hand felt absurdly heavy and warm atop her skin.

"Wonderful! Fabulous!" Croaker crowed, rubbing his hands together and producing a dry, snakey sound. "I've got to get back to work, but I will see you all on the morrow." He ducked into one of the cubicles, once out of sight stubbing his toe on a chair and cursing loudly but cheerfully. K chuckled and lifted her hand from Hermione. To the younger witch it felt as though her touch still lingered.

"Right then, girlie. Go home, get some rest; we're sure to have an exciting day tomorrow."

"Tomorrow" was exciting; as were most of the days K dragged Hermione around and attempted to at least prepare her as best as she could be for what she would face in the Department of Mysteries. The name was apt - a day didn't go by without Hermione being absolutely confounded at least once, her expansive knowledge - muggle and magical - failing to explain most of the things that happened. K was less of a terrible teacher than Hermione had feared, and, once one got used to her, actually a good companion to have down on the 9th level. The Department itself was impossibly huge, and K's "tour" was made up of mostly explaining the sectors. It was made obvious to Hermione that there really was a right, wrong, and very wrong direction to go, whether one was looking for the exit or not.

"The Department won't usually send you to a sector you aren't ready for," K had explained. The habit of referring to the Department as some sort of sentient entity didn't stop after the first day; Hermione thought it might have even intensified as time went on. "There's a whole section that you should stay away from; start seeing black doors and you need to get away as soon as you can. That'd be the - oh, well, tons of stuff, but in the area of the Chamber of Death; all the haunted stuff's down that way, lots of messy stuff in general - Not many people can handle that sector, not even the veterans, so we've got a special few who work there exclusively. They're only here three months out of the year except in the case of emergencies, so it's unlikely that you'll see them, but their names are Harold and Selena. I doubt you'll ever need to know that but you seem one for swallowing facts like firewhisky, so I figured I'd throw you a bone." 

K's advice was always delivered in a very teasing tone, sometimes bordering on flirtatious but usually derisive (and sometimes both). Hermione found herself getting better and better at verbal repartee even over the course of the two weeks the women worked together daily. Her friends got the bitter end of that when she actually saw them; she often had to remind herself not to make Ron cry with a comment that would have made K only laugh. She hadn't felt comfortable with being "released" from training after only a week, mostly because of the incident on the last day of the first week that had sent her confidence and her literal body running and screaming. It was a misunderstanding with one of the department workers who'd been mistaken for and demonic aberration when really they'd been stuck in the Department for around a week without sleep, having forgotten their watch. An apology and a quick trip to St. Mungo's for the unfortunate man later, Hermione decided - and K concurred - that another week would be prudent. 

Despite a few hiccups, though none so bad as that particular one, Hermione found herself getting into the groove of working in a place that constantly surprised you even if you were on your toes with your wand at the ready. She found herself relying on the skills she'd picked up living on the run with Harry and Ron (and going to school with Harry and Ron - she didn't think she'd be so grateful that her two best friends attracted the most trouble than any other people she had ever met), and on occasion surprised K with her clout. The younger witch displayed far more aptitude than her mentor at paperwork, that was for sure; the chore made up a surprising amount of what the two witches did on a daily basis. There was no general format for an incident report, and K had advised her to just scribble down a general summary of what happened that day. Mr. Croaker praised her reporting skills, although he didn't look very happy when she set a foot and a half of parchment on his desk at the end of her third day of work. This was unsurprising given the fact that K at the same time turned in her report on the back of a receipt for three dozen pairs of dragon leather underwear she'd pulled from her cloak ("Don't ask," K had said, her face grim. Croaker hadn't.).

And now today was her first day to truly work on her own. Sure, after the period of training with K she was able to complete her own tasks and work largely with autonomy, K had still stayed within shouting distance and was quick to assist before Hermione could even ask or realize she needed help. The previous day K admitted to her that she had not been doing much of her own work and had in fact been shadowing Hermione, making sure she was alright. Hermione's confidence in her own abilities didn't waver much, however; she felt as though she no longer needed a chaperone for the work she was doing. It was more for K's peace of mind that she promised to send her Patronus with a message the second she felt any slight bit of uneasiness with a task the Department had set her to.

Hermione sat at her desk a moment, jotting down a few notes and flipping through previous reports (she had developed the habit of making a copy for her own records for reasons only she understood). She noticed with slight pride that her reports had grown quite a bit more succinct (although they would never be as short as K's) and Mr. Croaker no longer grew pale when she presented them to him. She never saw him actually read the reports, but he was at the office far longer than she was. 

She stood, smoothing her robes and making sure her wand was strapped securely in her holster, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. In addition to mischievous - or even, in some cases, murderous rooms - there were a few creatures roaming around the huge complex looking for a bite to eat. Hermione had even once encountered a room that was set up very much like the forbidden forest, although of course much more compact and with much less variety of flora and fauna. K had explained that (most likely) it had been set up for wand wood tree examination and study and had overtaken the room and grown a bit wild. Her co-worker was currently napping in her cubicle, apparently having worked the first half of a double shift and taking a bit of a break. This was probably the only room it was safe enough to sleep in, although even the safety of the office wasn't guaranteed, nor was it at all comfortable. 

Hermione quietly open and shut the door, trying not to wake the red head and smiling to herself about how peaceful the normally wired woman looked. She looked at her watch, making sure she knew what time it was so she would know roughly how much time she had until lunch, and set out to be transported to where the Department needed her. 

She left the Time room swiftly, noting that the cupboards that had once held the Time-Turners were once again becoming occupied, but not exclusively with the odd hourglasses. She knew that if she stopped to investigate the new additions she'd waste a lot of time; the hardest part of the job, she found, was resisting the urge to pause every once in a while and and just _look_. Everything in the Department of Mysteries was interesting, despite the incomprehensibility and danger that those who worked there faced.

The walls of the hallway were rather dark, which was not unusual, but Hermione did not recognize where she was. There were empty picture frames of various sizes and finishes along the walls, giving the area a seemingly incomplete aura. She found that instead of a sort of apprehension she usually felt on her "missions" in the Department, with each step she grew more and more confident, as though the area itself were boosting her energy, telling her that this was the right path, this was where she was meant to be. She looked over her shoulder at the door leading to the Time room, but it was already almost out of sight; the only reason she could still see it was that the door itself was bright white, a stark contrast to the steadily darkening grey of the walls. She shook her head and turned around, heading forward again.

She saw no doors as she walked. That was her usual indicator of where she was relatively, and despite the light feeling in her chest and the spring in her step she started to feel slightly anxious. No doors meant she could be in a corridor with black doors at some point. It would explain why she didn't recognize where she was. She glanced at the walls and started to notice a pattern of ornateness cropping up in the picture frames, which had grown less numerous and more spaced out and symmetrical. Still the frames were empty, but she found herself almost able to see the missing pictures and paintings if she squinted a bit. It was no use trying to guess the theme of where she was headed; sometimes the most obvious seeming meanings of the objects that she saw were far from the truth to an almost sinister degree. She'd learned that some things it was better to leave not parsed out, for the same reason she resisted the urge to stop and look; she would spend her whole life down here if she attempted to solve every mystery. She looked ahead and her heart skipped a beat. 

Finally there was a door.

It was very, very dark. She went closer, unable to help herself, and she realized that it wasn't quite black - more of a dark chestnut color that lightened the longer she looked at it. There was no door knob, no way to open it, but it least centered her in a more recognizable location. She wasn't quite into very wrong territory, but if she didn't feel so confident in this being where she needed to be, she would have left anyway, or at least called K to accompany her. The mere thought of calling for assistance now seemed silly, almost wrong - and Hermione was reluctant to ask the woman for help anyway, seeing as she seemed exhausted and... 

Well, she was not one to rely solely on gut, but Hermione had a niggling feeling that she wouldn't want to share this particular task with anyone else. She wanted to be able to hold her own, after all, and she knew that she would be able to hand it. That wasn't quite all that she was feeling about it, but still, she felt the urge to move on and stop thinking so much on the subject. She drew out her wand, as a precaution and a sort of homage to her co-worker in lieu of actually asking for help, and started legging it again. 

The frequency of picture frames was decreasing, and the number of doors increasing in direct correlation. None of them had doorknobs yet, but Hermione felt no draw to open them besides a cursory curiosity that faded as soon as she passed. She hadn't looked over her shoulder since she'd left the sight of the Time room door. Her legs seemed to move forward on their own, her gaze passing from side to side, looking up and down the corridor, trying to figure out where exactly the Department was sending her. She looked at her watch, wondering how much time had passed, and was startled to find that it had only been not even a half-hour since she had set out. It had seemed like she had been walking for ages, and she was beginning to grow impatient to reach her destination.

As though the Department were answering her plea the end of the hallway came into Hermione's sight, capped by a small, unassuming door that nevertheless drew Hermione towards it. She faltered and her stride slowed as she came up to it, anticipation morphing into nervousness. She clutched her wand and held it slightly aloft in front of her, a few spells running through her mind in case something jumped out at her as soon as she opened the portal. It was lighter than the other doors she had seen, so she assumed her journey had taken her further away from the restricted section of the Department, and it did indeed have a doorknob this time.

The knob and lock were a mottled silver, and it seemed like no one had touched the door in a long time. The wood was warped despite being a warm, sanded brown, and when Hermione stood in front of it there was a draft coming from underneath the door. She paused and took a deep breath, listening to the thrum of her heart as her blood raced through her veins. She was at once excited and anxious to have finally reached what she knew was to be her task, and her mind raced through a multitude of possibilities as to what would actually be behind this door. There had been too much build up for it to be one of the more mundane tasks she had completed before, she thought, but then again the Department might be testing her guard to see if she could handle a disappointing surprise rather than an interesting - if dangerous - one.

Her hand brushed against the door and her wand arm burned. Her mind immediately flashed to her first day, but there was something different about this pain; it was hotter and more pervasive, and didn't fade completely even when she jerked her hand away. She didn't look at her arm or the slur carved into it; she merely rubbed it over the sleeve of her robe and tried to hold in her whimpers, eyes closed, until the pain passed. It didn't last for more than a few minutes, but her whole body seemed flushed and hot and she could feel her heart beat against her chest in a steady but intense rhythm that was almost painful. She took several breaths and then opened her eyes again. The door still looked the same; small, unassuming, no reason to cause such pain.

She flicked a sort of diagnostic spell (one that K had taught her) at it, although the witch had said it would be unlikely that Hermione would have to use it, especially if she took K's advice and stayed far away from the black doors. Nothing happened. The door seemed absolutely mundane, and so either was magicked so strongly that the spells would stay under the radar until she tripped them, or there was nothing magical about the door at all. She heaved an anxious breath and touched a finger to the doorknob.

There was no pain. She let go of the air in her lungs, but still would not let herself relax, and gripped the knob. It was cold beneath her hands, especially with how heated her skin still was from whatever had caused the stabbing pain in her arm. It felt smooth and nice and soothed her, and she let the coolness overtake her and banish the sweat that had collected on her brow. Sufficiently refreshed but still on guard, she turned the knob and listened to the creak and thunk of the tumbling mechanisms as she pushed open the door, wand at the ready. 

The first thing that hit her senses was how musty the air that escaped from the room was, but quickly it was overtaken by a rush of freshness from the hall. She noticed that there was a fireplace with a fire crackling merrily inside, seeming to have just been lit; it brightened the whole room most cheerfully, lighting it up and revealing the absolute trashiness of the wallpaper and the lumpy, mismatched furniture. There were two chairs, one with pastel colored stripes and one with multicolored tulip designs, and one paisley couch. 

One paisley couch that was occupied. 

One paisley couch that was occupied by a woman. A woman lounging languidly, twirling her wand between spindly fingers. A woman with curls upon curls of dark, silken hair, a pale face, ruby lips, and deep, dark black eyes that seemed to glitter as they looked over and stared at Hermione as she stood, ashen and frozen, in the doorway. Those lips cracked open to bare sparkling white teeth.

There, on the couch, was a very alive Bellatrix Lestrange.


	2. Chapter 2

She would have screamed if she could find her voice. Instead she only stood, silently gazing on the occupant of the garish room. The woman stared back, her smile never faltering, but morphing from a split second of happiness - Happiness! How was Hermione to know that was the expression on Bellatrix's face? She'd only ever seen a crazed, manic sort of glee, never true happiness- to curious and confused, to a more familiar look of annoyance and bared teeth. Hermione unfroze when Bellatrix went to get up from her perch on the couch, whipping her wand in front of her and training it on the dark witch.

"Don't move," she growled, glad that she kept the shaking in her voice to a minimum. Bellatrix's face grew ever more annoyed, but she didn't seem to be cautious or frightened in the least despite Hermione's threat. In fact, the dark witch rolled her eyes. 

"Of course," the older witch responded snidely. "I've waited in this room alone for ages, and my first company would like to spell my arse off before I even get a chance to speak." She sank back into her seat and yawned, tucking her wand behind her ear. Throwing her arms onto the back of the couch carelessly and staring Hermione down, Bellatrix blinked slowly and a smug smirk made its way back on her face. "You're staring, girl. Close your mouth and stand up straight. _There's_ a proper lass." 

"How are you- what is- you should be-" Hermione sputtered, her brain frantically racing to come up with a reason that Bellatrix Lestrange would be alive and lounging in the Ministry of Magic. "Why are you here?" The question came out as a half squeak half snarl, and Bellatrix took note of the terrified glare on Hermione's face with a slight downturn of her lips.

"I know the reputation of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black precedes itself, of course, but I don't know you, and so you should have no reason to hate me, yet." Was the evil witch _pouting_? And did she really not recognize the face of the girl she had tortured just a few years ago? Hermione wouldn't put it past the insane witch to be that callous, but the ex-gryffindor had been a rather large thorn in the side of the dark for a long time, and Bellatrix hadn't failed to recognize her before. She had all but claimed her as her torture victim, had marked her permanently as a mudblood, had terrified her. Hermione went to take a step back but firmly held her ground.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing here, Lestrange?" Hermione interrogated, trying to sound a bit more intimidating than intimidated. The witch hadn't even made a threatening move, but the younger witch could feel herself shaking and it was becoming a chore to keep from falling to her knees. 

Bellatrix raised an eyebrow. "Well, it seems you don't know me, either. The Lestranges never even had a daughter. I'd say it's time for you to brush up on your family history." She paused. "Or have I really been in this room so long that the pure bloods have multiplied again? Good for them, if they had someone who looked like me rather than _Rodolphus_." She threw her head back and laughed and Hermione shivered before she even heard the sound. But it wasn't a maniacal cackle. It was far from soft, but it was infinitely less crazed and even rather pleasant. Again Hermione was struck by the genuineness of her amusement. Her teeth were pearlescent and her cheeks were full if a bit sharp due to her aristocratic bone structure. She had obviously taken care of herself after the fall of her Dark Lord. 

"You're Bellatrix Lestrange," Hermione said, seeming unsure about her words. It seemed impossible that Bellatrix was sitting there, and, now that Hermione was getting a better look at her less colored by terror, looking good. Impossibly healthy after having been dead for almost two years. She was full bodied, her hair shone, her skin was nearly flawless - she looked almost like a model, posing carelessly on the couch. Someone might at any time show up to take her picture.

"Bellatrix Black," she corrected, wrinkling her nose. "I dodged that marriage arrangement by a hair when my dear sister ran off with a mudblood. That bloody bitch," she said fondly, chuckling again. "Well as long as she rolls around in the mud like a pig, I don't have to. I assume you're too much of a simpleton to spread this around, of course, otherwise I wouldn't be saying anything." Bellatrix waved a hand and gave an infinitesimal shrug of her shoulder. "Come in, sit down, and lower your wand. You look positively awful when you want to hex me. Try a smile, or at least try to look like Cissy." She pulled a very somber face, but it split into giggles a second later.

"Cissy?" Hermione repeated, walking in for lack of something better to do. She didn't let her guard down but she had no idea where she was or who she was with. This woman obviously wasn't Bellatrix Lestrange, insane torturer, murderer, and deceased follower of Lord Voldemort. This woman was something else, something far less scary but, perhaps, far more mysterious. Bellatrix stared her down, dark eyes gleaming, until she took a seat on one less garish of the easy chairs, before answering.

"You'll tell me your name. I hope I'm right about you being a simpleton, because otherwise you're just uncultured and rude and I won't have that in my company. I don't want to spend time training you in manners when all I want is someone to talk to while I sit in this stupid room." Hermione pulled a frown and sat at the edge of her seat.

"I won't be talked to that way! Especially not by you!" she snapped, flinching as Bellatrix's expression cooled and she absentmindedly played with her wand where it was tucked into her hair. The woman didn't say anything, and her gaze eventually wandered, but Hermione felt as though the tension in the room was choking her. She finally sighed and slumped in her seat. "Hermione. Hermione Granger."

"Hm," was all Bellatrix said in return. There was no spark of recognition. So she really was telling the truth; she didn't know Hermione at all. 

"What are you doing here?" Hermione repeated, wanting to blurt out several inquiries that were not as friendly but holding herself back. She was still at work, after all, even though it seemed as though she had stepped into another world, perhaps a parallel universe where Bellatrix Lestrange was actually Bellatrix Black, a grating but attractive witch instead of an insane and dead one.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Bellatrix retorted. She shifted her position, tucking her legs underneath her, ignoring the way her skirt rode up and revealed her pale legs. She was dressed, at least, in her signature black, but the outfit was on the whole less sinister. It was a simple black silk skirt and blouse, infinitely more flowy than the usual tight corsetted dress that she appeared in in Hermione's nightmares. She had no idea how to answer that question, whether or not she should reveal where it is they were or who she was. Actually, she was absolutely certain she wasn't going to reveal who she was. Different the witch might be, and no longer a Death Eater, but speaking to her even now revealed she still held certain prejudices about muggle-borns.

"I was doing a little bit of looking around and found you here in this room," Hermione said vaguely, hoping she could affect a nonchalant enough air for Bellatrix not to question it. "How long have you been here, anyway?" she asked, quickly trying to shift the subject onto the room's occupant.

"Oh, ages." Hermione looked disgruntled - it was not a very clear or helpful answer. Not that she expected much out of the witch. Bellatrix quirked her lips. "Are you trying to discern my age?" she teased, fluttering her eyelashes. "I'm not so vain as to be unwilling to answer if you ask me directly."

"Oh?" Hermione replied, sneering. Bellatrix clapped her hands together and cackled, the sound closer to what Hermione had previously experienced. It sent a shiver down her spine. 

"There you go, that's a Cissy look if I ever saw one! Look at you! Now if you could only appropriate her sense of class, you'd be perfect. Although you would never be able to rise to the level of the Black sisters, poor thing." Hermione bristled.

"I'd say you aren't a day over sixty," Hermione hissed, clenching her hands in her lap and glaring at the witch on the couch. Bellatrix sat up a little straighter and slid her gaze up and down Hermione's body in an overtly salacious way, her tongue peeking out and taking a swipe of her lips as she looked.

"And I'd say you aren't a day under twelve, dearie," she purred, a sharpness to her retort that made Hermione inwardly smile with grim triumph. 

"I'm nineteen," she corrected, sitting a little straighter. Bellatrix stared at her, her tongue having yet to retreat back into her mouth. Hermione couldn't help but stare at it; it was as vibrant a pink as her lips were a shiny red, and refused to stay still for more than a moment as the wheels in Bellatrix's mind spun. 

"Of age, then, and out of school," Bellatrix said finally. "What is it that you want to do if you grow up, little witch?" 

"I am grown enough for Ministry work," Hermione replied flatly. She wondered if Bellatrix ever stopped poking and prodding and being altogether a menace. She supposed she wasn't surprised; it wasn't as though the woman could have changed all that much even when she became a Death Eater, with her childishly insane mind. Bellatrix tutted.

"I wouldn't wish it on even a simpleton, although I'm sure you'd fit right in with your coworkers."

"And what would you do, huh?" Hermione snapped. "What career would fit the great Bellatrix Lestrange?" Bellatrix pursed her lips and sunk lower into the couch, glaring at Hermione. The younger witch felt her chest seize and couldn't find a breath until Bellatrix's eyes left her.

"Bellatrix _Black_," she began, emphasizing the last name. Hermione inwardly cursed. It was hard to remember to use the ex-Death Eater's (or was she even? this iteration of the dark witch seemed unaffected by Voldemort and his cronies) maiden name rather than her married one. Given the fact that this one had never married Rodolphus Lestrange. "Would not stoop so low as to perform common labor. I would do what I wanted when I wanted, just as I have for all of my life."

"So nothing useful, then." Hermione commented airily, unable to help matching Bellatrix's snark even as the older witch's responses terrified her into the cessation of bodily function. "You'd sit up in your tall tower, wasting away, ever a Black princess." 

"Even if I never twitched a pinkie I'd be of more use than a lowly, waste of a wand ministry worker," Bellatrix snarled. Hermione gave her a bright, barmy smile and twirled her hair around her pinkie. 

"Is that so?" she asked. "What's so great about you- besides your blood?" Hermione added quickly when Bellatrix's mouth opened. She raised an eyebrow as Bellatrix's expression relaxed into amusement. 

"Aside from being a daughter of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black?" Bellatrix began. Hermione groaned.

"Do you have to spell out the whole title every time? Yes, yes, I know you're ancient," Hermione couldn't keep a smile off of her face and Bellatrix gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Although I haven't seen much of your nobility. Perhaps showing instead of telling would suit you more?" Bellatrix gave her a steamy look that made her flush. The older witch sat up straighter in a more proper posture, crossing her legs and arching her back, displaying her chest more prominently.

"A lady must not slouch," Bellatrix began in a shrill, mocking voice, sounding practiced. Hermione bit back a smile and wondered who she was mimicking. "A lady must not swear, spit, or offend," she paused, winked at Hermione, and continued. "directly. A lady shall never, if she can help it, associate with the scum of society, and therefore must be able to recognize it as such." 

It took a large amount of effort for Hermione not to rub her left arm. It was probably her imagination, but it had begun to throb once again in that almost-painful way. She turned away from the older witch, unable to handle looking at her for now. Bellatrix looked irritated that Hermione was not amused.

"I am more than my family name, in any case," she continued, sounding a bit disgruntled. "I was named the brightest witch of the age when I was in school, and for a good reason, although some professors were unhappy with what I did with that aptitude." Her gloominess disappeared nigh instantly at that thought, and she grinned at Hermione mischievously. "I was a bit of a naughty girl, back then." 

"You seem a bit of a naughty woman, now," Hermione responded unthinkingly. She looked up from her shoes when Bellatrix neglected to respond and her face flushed completely red at the look the woman was giving her. 

"Oho, I do, do I, little witch?" she purred, uncrossing and crossing her legs and throwing her arms over the back of the couch again. "I'm sure a young thing like you would love to take a peek at how naughty I can be."

"Th-that is absolutely not what I meant, and you know it!"

"Do I?" Bellatrix retorted with the raise of an eyebrow. "All I know is your name and that you're a bit slow. Why don't you tell Aunty Bella all about yourself, I'm sure you've been dying to talk about you since you put down your wand. I know your type." 

"Y-you're the one who's been gabbing on and on about herself," Hermione retorted, trying to keep her face from lighting up further. "I would be perfectly content to just leave you to talk to yourself." Bellatrix sat forward quickly and Hermione forced her eyes to flick away from the swing of her low cut blouse. 

"You're intrigued by me," she accused. Hermione was horrified to discover that the witch was right, but she refused to admit it aloud. "You wouldn't leave. We've only just started. Now be a good girl and talk a little about you. You're making me seem self centered." Deciding to leave that particular comment alone, Hermione sighed and curled up into the easy chair, making herself more comfortable. She probably wasn't going to leave for a while. 

"My name's Hermione, and I'm nineteen, like I said. I was actually also lauded as the brightest witch of her age while I was in school," she added snidely, frowning when Bellatrix gave a screeching cackle. She wished the woman wouldn't do that.

"Sorry, was just thinking about the lowered standards of the Wizarding World... Anyway, go on. Don't let me distract you." Hermione once again ignored the quip. She was quickly realizing she'd have to choose her battles with the older witch if she wanted to do something more than just squabble constantly while they were talking.

"I'm working with the Ministry, I want to-" 

"Wait," Bellatrix interrupted. Hermione huffed exasperatedly. "Oh come off it, I just want to know which house you were in. Don't lie," she added when Hermione opened her mouth. "It's obvious you weren't a Slytherin, so don't try to impress me or you'll annoy me." 

"Why would I want to impress you?" Hermione snapped back, crossing her arms. "I was in Gryffindor."

"I knew it would be either that or Hufflepuff," Bellatrix muttered, giggling. Hermione shivered. She was beginning to sound more and more like her old self, the self that Hermione had encountered. "I don't doubt that you would try to impress me," Bellatrix added once her giggle fit had passed. "And there's no reason to be ashamed of that desire." She looked at Hermione expectedly, but the younger witch was glowering down at her lap. "And I suppose you'll want to say 'there's nothing wrong with being a Hufflepuff'," she teased, her voice ascending into the high pitched, mocking squeak she'd employed before. "I see much wrong with any house that isn't my own, although Ravenclaw is a _barely_ acceptable substitute."

Hermione found that she very much wanted to leave. For whatever reason the Department had led her here, she refused to deal with this woman - this _shade_ any longer. There was a sense of dread that kept pooling in her chest every so often when Bellatrix moved or laughed or spoke in a certain way that made Hermione flash back to a certain scene. Looking at her company's mouth as she smiled, Hermione felt as though her teeth would morph into the muzzle of a wolf and clasp about her neck and end her life at any moment. Looking at her hands, which gesticulated with such ferocity, Hermione felt as though they would grasp her arms and drag her to the floor or flourish the dark wand still perched in Bellatrix's hair and send her into painful convulsions with a three syllable spell. Those lips seemed made for mouthing Crucio, over and over and over as Hermione writhed on the hard ground- 

A touch on her shoulder made Hermione jump and shriek. Bellatrix took a surprised step back, looking concerned before she composed her expression into a more neutral annoyance. "You seem a bit lost, Granger. I'd prefer you not to daydream." She backed off a bit more when Hermione looked at her with an expression crossed between a drowning rat and a just-awakened kneazle. "Off in your own head? I'd hate to see you lost in such an empty space."

Hermione took a deep, shuddery breath. The older witch toyed with her skirt, not looking away from Hermione, her expression remaining unchanged until she grew surprised when Hermione stood up. "I'm leaving," Hermione said, unsure as to why she was informing the woman of anything. She could hardly breath and it was all because of this woman, this woman who should be dead, who had done nothing but torture and torment the innocent and who had deserved to die on the battlefield. Hermione could feel herself working up into a frenzy. She wanted to turn her wand on the woman and finish what had been started by Molly Weasely two years ago on the crumbling grounds of Hogwarts. 

Bellatrix took a step toward Hermione as Hermione headed for the door. It was very hard for the bushy haired witch to not draw her wand and start slinging spells and hexes in her direction, but she reminded herself that although she wasn't able to handle being in the presence of Bellatrix Lestrange - no, Black - this version of her hadn't truly done anything to Hermione herself. She didn't know what differences there were between this woman and the woman of the outside, but she did know that no actions had been taken against the muggle-born witch. "Granger," Bellatrix began, hesitant for the first time. It was as though she was actually thinking about her words before she said them, Merlin forbid! For that reason Hermione allowed herself to pause, to listen for a bit longer. "I have been in this room for a rather long time," she started again. Hermione couldn't quite tell the tone in which Bellatrix was talking, or the reason behind her words, just yet. "So long, I haven't even been able to keep track. And you have been my first visitor. And if you are a bit sensitive, or a bit touched-" Hermione huffed and Bellatrix sped up her speech. "I wouldn't mind perhaps taking it a bit easier on you, as much as I can manage with you being such an easy target for teasing."

The ex-Gryffindor turned around, her eyebrows raising of their own accord far up her face. Was this Bellatrix's attempt at an apology? Was she really that desperate for company that she'd beg for Hermione to stay? At least, what amounted to begging for Bellatrix - she stood imperiously and refused to look at Hermione, even when the younger witch walked passed her and sat back down. It was hard to pass up the opportunity to see what the 'evil' witch considered to be nice. Bellatrix lifted her chin ever higher and sniffed. Hermione couldn't help but chuckle. "Well?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips. "Aren't you going to sit down?" 

"Hmph." Bellatrix swept aristocratically over to the flower-print easy chair and flung herself into it, making it rock slightly before settling back onto all four legs. Looking at Hermione, she twiddled her fingers in a somehow violent way and rustled her shoulders like an upset bird settling back into its nest. They looked at each other silently for a few moments. Hermione allowed herself to take in the older witch's appearance, noting the severe differences in looks with her other self, including that she didn't actually look all that much older than Hermione herself. Most witches aged rather gracefully, of course, but there was an element of youth that had been obviously absent from the gaunt and haunted countenance of Bellatrix Lestrange. It was most remarkably present in Bellatrix Black.

"So," Hermione began, to break the silence and to stop herself from staring too long on the curved and generous body of her conversational partner. "How old are you, really?" 

Bellatrix snorted. She opened her mouth to say something, but when she looked at Hermione's face, she paused, let a grin slither over her lips, and blinked her eyes slowly. "I'm nearly thirty," she answered, the lack of guile in her tone suspicious. Hermione didn't press the issue, although she knew that Lestrange had been in her mid- to late-forties, at the least. It made her wonder how it was that this Bellatrix existed at all, and if perhaps she were a mistake that time coughed up to be discovered by a Granger on duty. "I suppose I haven't aged as gracefully as I thought, given your earlier impression," Bellatrix continued, her smirk hardening. Hermione flushed. 

"I didn't actually think you were sixty," she admitted, playing with her sleeves. "You look..." Her eyes flickered over Bellatrix's body lying prostrate on her chair as though she still lounged on the spacious, if ugly, couch. She couldn't come up with a proper word, which surprised and annoyed her. Bellatrix's grin widened. 

"Flattery, my dear - although from your look I would say that you are legitimately speechless when you gaze upon my body. It's nothing to be ashamed of, but I'm afraid you're a bit..." She seemed to flick through several word choices before settling on one that she obviously deemed nicer. "Young, for me." 

"Not too female?" Hermione shot back, her face flushing further, even her neck pinkening a bit. Bellatrix gave her a semi exasperated, semi pitying look.

"That is hardly a thing to worry about, little witch. You'd think you were raised by the most backward people on the planet."

Hermione couldn't help but snort. She tried to hold it in but she couldn't. Bellatrix glanced at her lazily but there was a sharpness to her gaze that demanded an explanation. "I'm sure your parents were absolutely forward thinkers," Hermione said, looking Bellatrix dead in the eye for as long as she dared. 

"My parents," Bellatrix began, her voice softening to a hiss. She didn't sound angry, but she didn't sound like anything else Hermione could recognize. "Were a part of a long line of noble heritage, and their views were influenced by some of the most brilliant minds in the Wizarding world. Just because they didn't cave to blood traitor sensibilities and absurd crack pot wizards who thought themselves better, doesn't mean they weren't intelligent." Hermione had a feeling that Bellatrix words were less about defending her parents and more about defending her own way of thinking. It was something that Hermione would have to get over if she were to continue speaking to the woman amicably, but Hermione didn't think she could get over it, or even want to. 

"The fact that you defend loving who you want and yet can't seem to grasp that people with magic aren't lesser or greater because of who their parents are is baffling to me," Hermione retorted, crossing her arms. Bellatrix growled and sat forward in her chair.

"Fucking a woman and stealing magic are two very different things, little witch. You'd do well to see reason, or at least to pretend to see reason, or the both of us will regret you staying here." 

"I already regret staying," Hermione snapped. "You aren't the best conversationalist around, despite what you may think, _Bella_." Bellatrix seemed annoyed at the mocking tone that the younger witch employed. 

"I at least can understand the importance of blood in the inheritance of magic, _Hermione_," Bellatrix sang out, mimicking Hermione's tone. It would of course be a jibe the first time Bellatrix actually used her first name. "There is no logical sense to a muggle child born to muggles suddenly developing magical talent." 

"Since when is there logic when magic is involved?" Hermione scoffed, throwing up her hands. "There's no reasoning with you, is there." It was obviously not a question, and had it been, it would have been equally as ignored by the older witch.

"I have no clue why you would stoop to advocate for mudbloods," Bellatrix drawled, her expression schooling itself as she sat back in her chair. Hermione rolled her eyes. 

"Why? I'm just a simpleton, aren't I?" Bellatrix shrugged.

"You've proven yourself somewhat adept at keeping up with me," she admitted, although starkly refusing to apologize from what Hermione gathered from her tone and body language. It was simultaneously surprising and not that the woman wouldn't even stop to think that Hermione herself was a muggle-born witch. Bellatrix was smart despite being completely abrasive, but being stuck in a room with no companions didn't leave much for choice as far as conversation partners went, and if Bellatrix could avoid thinking or finding out that the only person who came to visit was someone who she would inherently despise, she would.

"Thank you," Hermione huffed, acknowledging that it was at least a round about compliment and she'd be better off reinforcing good behavior in the older witch than trying to change the bad. There were a few silent seconds during which the women brought themselves to be able to look at each other once again, and despite Hermione's raw nerves, she knew it was better to not bring up the subject of blood purity again. If Bellatrix was trying so hard to ignore it in favor of companionship, Hermione supposed she would oblige. She wasn't here to change the woman.

Or was she? Why had the Department brought her here? What was this room? The ex-gryffindor looked around, studying her surroundings once again, as she had been rather interrupted by the startling appearance of the ex-Death Eater in the room, if this woman had indeed participated in that group. It was a tackier space than she'd realized. The fireplace took up much of the space of the (what she assumed was) west wall, a huge, brick contraption with dark slate insides that fed itself with a giant pile of wood occupying a bent and beaten metal cradle. The wall was a behind it was a canary yellow dirtied with soot, with what Hermione noticed was paintings of smiling dolls along the floor and ceiling. That had a rather creepy effect, and Hermione allowed herself to look away.

The other three walls were a blue-grey colored wallpaper, stripes running up and down them in a contrasting fuchsia which made Hermione cringe. The walls had picture frames similar to the more ornate ones that decorated the hallway outside, and although these were not empty, none of them were portraits. There were cows grazing in a field with a red barn far off in the distance, a serene lake with ducks floating on it and flicking their wings every once in a while, a still mountain forest that might have been a muggle painting had it not been for the occasional movement that one had to look closely to catch. Other than the two easy chairs and the couches, there were two ornate, and therefore out of place, black metal chairs tucked away in the corner, along with a small matching table that Hermione assumed was for a dining small lunches or teas. 

Bellatrix once again demanded Hermione's attention. The younger witch was surprised the woman had lasted long enough for Hermione to take in her surroundings. "What shall we talk about next, little witch? I believe we were on the topic of you ogling my body like a teenaged male, pimpled and salivating for the nearest thing to woman-flesh he can get his grubby little hands on."

"Ha, ha, very funny Bellatrix. You're interesting to look at, but not for the reasons you'd want," Hermione retorted.

"I know my beauty for what it is, Granger." Great. They were back to Granger now that she wasn't actively trying to upset Hermione. If she ever even tried to stop upsetting Hermione. "I can be confident in who I am and what I look like, despite your attempts to undermine that. I wonder who trained you to be a sniveling pule who must count on others' approval? It's obvious that you don't find yourself attractive."

"I'm not a narcissist, Black, and maybe it would do you some good to gain a little humility, a little self-consciousness."

"You don't pull the last name thing off very well, dearie."

"You don't pull the abruptly change the subject thing off very well, my sweet."

"How adorable!" Bellatrix cackled, causing Hermione to withdraw as far she could into the chair cushion at her back. "Am I your sweet? We haven't spent much time together, but I suspect I'm the nicest person you've ever encountered. What other names do you have for me? Hm? Darling? Dearest? Love, even?" She gave Hermione a smile so heated and salacious that the younger witch felt flames licking at her cheeks.

"Merlin," she groaned. "How about pain in the ass?"

"Ha! I'm surprised you can bring yourself to swear, witchling." She pulled a pout and covered her ears, her tightly wound curls bouncing with her barely contained glee. "You're being a bad influence on little Bella."

"I'm sure I can in no way influence princess Bella Black who does what she wants and screw all else." 

"Come now," Bella responded, so quickly that she spoke almost before Hermione had even finished her sentence. "That's no way to seduce a woman."

"What woman?" Hermione quipped, almost as quickly. "I'm looking around the room and see no woman other than myself."

"Aha!" Bellatrix giggled and grabbed a pillow, crushing it to her chest as though it were a beloved stuffed animal, wrenching it underneath her hands, looking very much like she'd do the same to Hermione if she got her hands on her. Bellatrix was very skilled at looking amused and murderous at the same time. "You-"

What she was going to say to Hermione was interrupted by a loud buzzing sound, furious and refusing to be ignored. The sound originated from Hermione's wrist, and both witches looked down at it in surprise. "Oh!" Hermione said, realizing that it was her watch. Had it really been so long since she found the room? It didn't feel like more than a few minutes at the most, in spite of the fact that she'd already been driven to leave at least twice by the insufferable witch's attitude. "I have to go," Hermione informed the older witch. Her amusement faded into boredom and she shrugged her spindly shoulders.

"Go on, if you want to give up again," she said, yawning unconvincingly and turning away from Hermione as she stood up.

"I'm not giving up," Hermione protested. "It's just, I have to go home." Bellatrix shooed her with a wave of her hand, uncaring. Hermione groaned and rolled her eyes, making her way over to the door. As soon as she put her hand on the doorknob, she heard a loud rustle behind her. She was reluctant to look back, but then Bellatrix spoke up. 

"Are you coming back?" The question's tone was barely interested, and so quiet that if Hermione hadn't been listening closely she wouldn't have understood. Still, in reparation for what she'd gone through today, she refused to respond to such a lackluster question.

"Sorry?" 

"Are... Will you," Bellatrix began again, louder this time, and disgruntled that she'd have to repeat herself. "Come by again?" Hermione hid a smile from the older witch to keep her from flying into a rage. 

"I'll try," she said, and, as she left the room and shut the door behind her, was surprised to find that she meant the words.

Stepping into the office made Hermione feel queasy. It all looked so familiar, too familiar; she had somehow expected to step out of the little, gaudy room and into a universe where nothing was the same, where, perhaps, Voldemort ruled with a benevolent smile and gave out free puppies every Wednesday to little orphan muggles. She was relieved at least that she was alone. It would have been too much to put on a facade of normalcy in the face of Mr. Croaker, or worse, K, who seemed unusually adept at reading when she'd been shaken by an experience in the Department.

Hermione sat down in her chair in the midst of her cubicle, leaning over and putting her head in between her knees. Her head seemed simultaneously full and empty, thoughts racing but unable to be read by even her own brain. What had happened? What, in the name of Merlin's great grey beard, had happened? And why? But Hermione couldn't think of this here, and when she caught sight of a roll of parchment she'd set out, meaning to transcribe her report for the day, she knew she couldn't tell anyone else what she'd seen. She knew without thinking that she wasn't done with the room, wasn't done with the woman that was inside it, and despite the Department sending her there, she might not be allowed to finish her task if she revealed who was staying in the ministry right under the workers' noses.

She also couldn't lie. At least not today, not before she thought about what had happened, what it meant, and what she had to do. She'd "forget" to write a report, and the fact that there was no-one around to turn it in to helped assuage her guilt of being derelict of duty. She'd go home, back to her room, and peruse her personal library for some sort of explanation. 

As soon as she apparated to Grimmauld, she realized that it might not have been a hiccup of time after all that led... she couldn't even think the name... the ex-Death Eater to the room in the Department of Mysteries. Someone might have taken a thought-to-be-dead witch and Oblivated her, left her in the room. But that didn't make any sense, either. How would she survive? How would no one have found her, retrieved her after two years since she'd supposedly died? And why wouldn't she have left the room? Looking back on their interaction, the woman had seemed to know instinctively that she wouldn't be able to leave or follow Hermione out. She'd made no move to exit the room, and had all but pleaded for Hermione come back, and cited the fact that she'd had no idea how long she'd been in the room, but made no attempt to escape it.

She'd had her wand, for Merlin's sake! The likelihood that she somehow survived the final battle and someone spirited her away, retrieved her wand, and then hid her away in the Ministry of Magic of all places after Oblivating her... it was too much to even contemplate. If that were the truth and someone had pulled it off, Hermione would eat her socks. There was of course the possibility that the witch had been somehow brought forward in time (since she was obviously younger than her more evil, insane seeming counterpart), but Hermione knew of no way to do so, and the explanation held the same issue of the Oblivation and hiding away of the true Lestrange. To do that sort of magic undetected would mean a huge oversight and incompetence of the workers at the ministry, and while Hermione wasn't that confident in their abilities due to her previous interactions with them, she wouldn't think that anyone could be that oblivious. In addition it wouldn't explain why Bellatrix... There, she said, or rather thought, the name... would stay in the room, and wouldn't mention that she'd been brought there by the spell.

Hermione groaned, keying the door open and flicking a few Lumoses around the house. It was dark, of course; Harry was out, still, probably working a case with Ron. She'd promised to dine with the boys tonight, so if she wanted any time to figure out what was the cause of the events today she'd have to hurry and work on things now. She thought fondly and longingly of her bed and wished to collapse into it for a quick nap, but it was not in the cards tonight. She clamped up the stairs and into her room, shutting the door behind her and removing her robe before tossing it over the back of her desk chair. She flicked on a lamp with a wordless spell and peered at the smallest bookshelf, passing over titles with a finger. When her hand passed over her vision she realized she was shaking. 

She took a deep breath and allowed herself to stop thinking for a moment, just standing still and breathing, listening to herself and allowing herself to be comforted by the familiarity of her room. There were piles of books, on bookshelves, her desk, her bedside table, her bed; all well taken care of, of course, but well used and well loved. She'd taken up a lot of reading - well, more than usual - since she started working at the Department, and it was all fascinating but mostly purely theoretical. She had many friends willing to loan her or let her borrow rare books, which she was infinitely grateful for, especially now. She let her eyes come open again and looked down to where she'd been search before. 

She heard herself sniff, and felt a stinging warmth on her cheeks, and rubbed them impatiently. Her fingers came away wet and she groaned. The noise turned into a choked sob and she sat on the floor, leaning against her bookcase and shivering. It was warm, almost uncomfortably so, in her room, but she felt a chill deep inside her. She sobbed again, feeling both overwhelmed and irritated at herself for crying. She'd taken off her robe when she came in, and in doing so revealed her scar; she'd chosen today of all days to wear a short sleeved jumper, seeing as it had been warming up now that winter had passed. Her hands started shaking again as she looked at the crudely etched words in her skin.

She'd been sitting only a few feet away from a woman who'd tortured her. She'd spoken to her as though it were a perfectly normal thing to do, teased her, laughed at her. What the hell had she been thinking? Why the hell had she been willing, actually willing, to go back the next day, if she could find the entrance to that ostentatious hellhole? Why did she care why the Department had sent her there, why Bellatrix had come back for any other reason than to reverse what had been done and to stop it from happening again?

Shuddery breaths escaped Hermione's lungs and she hid her face in her hands and behind her hair, as though she could escape from these thoughts. Even as she ruminated over how ridiculous she had been, and was being, she knew she couldn't leave it alone. She was too curious for her own good, and couldn't leave a mystery unsolved, despite thinking that lesson had been learned in her work in the past month. No, Hermione Granger had picked up a challenge, an awful, puzzling, intriguing challenge, and she wouldn't put it down until she had solved it, no matter if she had to deal with a murderous bitch like Bellatrix Lestrange or Voldemort himself.

And was it truly Bellatrix Lestrange she was dealing with? The woman insisted that she was Bellatrix Black, bigoted pureblood princess, but not a murderess; a product of her upbringing, but someone so desperate for company that she'd ignore her conversation partner's advocacy for muggle-born equality and possible muggle-born heritage just to have someone to talk to. This woman was not the woman who had tortured and nearly killed Hermione, not the woman who had stabbed Dobby to death with her knife, even if it was some kind of memory spell that made her act in the way she did. What Hermione was dealing with was unprecedented. She turned and took a book from her shelf, leafing through its pages, mostly to feel the comfort of sharp, crisp paper fluttering beneath her finger tips. She was careful not to drip tears onto the book. She could do this. She could work out this mystery and fulfill the task that the Department had put her towards, and she would do it with the best ability she had available to her. She was worth something, and not even the snarky Bellatrix Black could convince her otherwise. She was strong. She was magical. She was a fierce young woman who'd faced danger and quite possibly death and come out on top.

But she was still terribly, terribly frightened.


End file.
